


we were infinite

by feralphoenix



Category: Night In The Woods (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Life goes on in Possum Springs. Mae holds on to hope where she can find it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _(But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn’t ask_ – when the skies opened up and all the stars fell into the lake)
> 
> most of the direct spoilers are for endgame shit & bea's storyline but there's some other miscellaneous side character related stuff here too if any of that's something you wanna avoid so you can see it for yourself

Shit is weird and subtly off-balance for a good week or two after the metaphorical-and-also-literal dust settles.

Okay like it’s been weird in Possum Springs since you got back, but—it was a subtler weird then. This is a weird you somehow manage to like even less, a weird built out of watching over your shoulder for who’s around and who’s missing and won’t return.

The morning after was probably the worst—your pulse loosened for everybody you saw walking up to the Snack Falcon, Selmers and Mr. Chazokov and Pastor K, and then your heart did weird gymnastics and bellyflopped into your guts for everyone who _wasn’t_ there. That girl on the day shift at the video store, one of the two guys who always seemed to loiter outside the bar, the old fogeys on the town council.

Aunt Mall Cop.

Every time you catch yourself hoping that she’s just been really really busy or something and wishing that she’ll show back up and nag your ass for traversing the city by rooftop, you think as hard as you can about Casey and Bruce and that kid on their phone at Harfest.

You have less weird dreams, at least. No more giant cave-pale universe fleas, no more rudeass godly tomcats on hills vaguely insulting you, no more ghosty musicians to hunt down, and no caprine hellbeast pouring words like black scribbles into the well of your brain. For now.

Sometimes you still get cases of ants (read: screaming terror) in your pants and your hindbrain starts screaming at you to preemptively beat somebody’s face in before everything in your vision turns into meaningless shapes. Those days you bat your eyelashes at Bea for old broken stock from the Ol’ Pickaxe and get your baseball bat and Gregg and smash it together with him.

Usually that helps. Some days it feels like slapping a bandaid on the issue. You try to remember your own speechifying about things saving you for today if not for always, then.

You play a lot of video games on your laptop, watch some porn, go to band practice ‘til you can almost play all Gregg’s new songs right (even if the solos still elude you).

Bea talks to you about therapists and other uncomfortable shit. There’s a guy more reliable than Mr. Hank in a suburb out past Briddle, only about an hour away, she says. You somehow manage to keep your mouth shut about how you don’t know that pills and talking about your tragic backstory™ are gonna help with what you know and what’s still trying to find a wedge into your brain, especially if you can’t tell a doctor the whole extent of said tragic backstory™. (This is mostly because when she gets started, you think a lot about that night with Angus and all the extremely good and smart shit he said after he showed you his heavy baggage.)

For your part, you plan a road trip.

 

 

You can’t tell if Bea’s nervousness about asking for time off is affecting her—her makeup game’s way too good for you to suss out dark circles. If anything she smokes more, but that might just be because she’s cramming for her online finals too. She comes over to your house sometimes to let you distract her from studying, and sometimes sits to the side while you and Gregg smash shit, though she never joins in on the shenanigans or accepts your invitations to do some more crimes.

She starts going home early from band practice. You sit with Angus and Gregg and say out loud that if Bea’s dad tries to get in the way or does anything you will absolutely kick his ass. Gregg whoops, and you can tell Angus supports your endeavors because he’s silent and tense next to you.

Mom prays a little for Bea, which is sweet, though you think that even if there is some kind of God you’re not sure how you stand on Them or if you want yourself or Bea catching Their attention anymore. Dad calls you kitten and pats your shoulder and tells you that he’ll do what he can. (He’s a little less tired these days since you passed him the tooth from Grandpa.)

You try to keep your focus on the plan, because it’s _going_ to happen and you are _going_ to get Bea the hell out of Possum Springs for a while if it is at all within your power.

“So like, what should I put on the mixtape playlist??” you poll Gregg and Angus and Germ over pizza tacos after Bea has excused herself to head back home.

“Eye dee kay, duder,” Gregg says, not even looking away from whatever retro video game he’s mashing buttons on. “Like you know how much Bea likes her gothy renaissance music, but you gotta put in some music that’ll tell her how you FEEL, and also stuff that we’ll all enjoy. Like maybe put in some of our songs?? That’s what me and Angus do.”

“Thanks kid, your opinion has been duly noted,” you tell him. “What do you think, Angus?”

Angus _hmmm_ s to himself for a long and thoughtful moment. “As many covers as you can find of Call Me Maybe.”

You and Gregg both shriek with laughter—“Angus _nooooo_ we’re ALL gonna have to listen to this!!” Gregg is protesting—and you ignore the feel of your ears and nose heating up while you weigh this weird ticklish embarrassment with how priceless Bea’s face is gonna be when she realizes.

(So you pull out your journal and scribble down yourself and Bea with the caption _Call Me Maebea????_ just in case.)

 

 

Bea’s car is small but steady, and she keeps the back windows open just a crack for Angus as she chews her cigarette.

From what you can see in the rearview mirror, Gregg is already asleep and drooling adorably on Angus’ shoulder, with Angus quietly watching the outside of the window, or maybe his phone. You can’t tell sometimes when light reflects off his thick glasses.

Your seat creaks a little; your head hurts a little more.

The car slows down just a bit, and you realize Bea’s only got one hand on the steering wheel before you notice that her other hand’s firm over yours as you dig claws into the seating.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a deep breath, and let it out. The fluttering inside you changes from panic to something lighter and marginally more bearable.

Not to thumb your nose at the unknowable or anything, but—as far as things that’ll keep saving you today go, you still believe in your own words.

She’s home enough for you.


End file.
